


Camelot

by stunningepiphanies



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, Implied Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunningepiphanies/pseuds/stunningepiphanies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's November 22nd, 1963, and the world just changed forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camelot

**Author's Note:**

> Goddamn. Look guys, I keep trying to sit down and write some cute fluffy Gallya, but I'm a historian and nothing can ever be happy. 
> 
> One day, man.

It's half past six in the evening when Gaby and Napoleon hear a knock at their hotel room door. They aren't expecting any company tonight, and Illya has once again barred his own bathroom upstairs to develop photos from the past few day's snooping. Gaby quickly sweeps their guns and radios under the sofa while Solo goes to check the door. 

"Who is it?" Gaby calls from the floor, still stuffing some of the more suspicious looking devices under their sitting room furniture.

Napoleon pauses, taking a look through the peephole. "Huh." Gaby pokes her head up, curious for the source of his surprise. "It's the concierge. She looks a little distressed." And she back down she goes again. Ugh. That woman had left her underwear under Gaby's pillow the other night, something more lace than anything actually useful. You'd think she would have a little more discretion, sleeping with a man who to her knowledge was very married. It's a little tacky at the very least.

Solo answers the door, and the distressed woman swoops in with little to no preperation at all. "I'm so sorry to intrude, Mr Owens. I know you and your new wife must be preparing for the film premiere tonight, but we just received some distressing news."

"Is everything alright, dear? Do you need some help?" He takes the woman by the elbow leading her deeper into the room, and Gaby rolls almost completely under the antique couch to hide their things from view. If she's spotted she can always say she dropped an earring. 

To their surprise, the concierge just gently pushes his hand away and moves back to the door. "N-no, no. We received word that your American president had been shot."

Gaby gasps, but she claps a hand over her mouth in time. Maybe. Hopefully. Solo just holds out a hand, still outwardly calm. "Shot as in, just shot, not-"

"He's passed away, Mr Owens, within the last hour. Now, we understand if you'll be cutting your honeymoon short. We'll arrange a taxi and someone to collect your bags if…" The woman slows to a halt, finally feeling the atmosphere of the room. Napoleon has gone still, stiller than anyone as animated as he has a right to be. "Sir?"

More silence. Gaby wishes she were up to see the look on his face, so she could at least have an idea how to proceed when the concierge leaves. After a few long moments of pained silence, the American finally speaks again. "I appreciate the offer, Colette," he starts slowly, "but I don't think we'll be leaving quite yet. Thank you for sending up the news."

There's some more shuffling completely out of Gaby's line of sight, but the solid slam of the door is signal enough to pop out. "Solo," she says, struggling out from under the couch, "are you-" 

She stops dead in her tracks. Solo, always so calm and collected, is folded into the small chair by their front door with his head in his hands. It's not a good look on him, she decides. Fragility only makes him look….sad.

Gaby frowns, but doesnt dare move to touch her partner. Instead, she goes straight to the en suite phone and starts dialing. "I'm….going to call Illya down, I think." 

"Yes," he agrees darkly. "I think we have some things to discuss."

\---

"I would have appreciated a little heads-up on this, Kuryakin."

Illya is as taken aback as Gaby had been, but now she's starting to see what Solo's thinking. The president assassinated in broad daylight. It was nasty and brutal. And, of course, who else than the KGB would do such a thing? Gaby isn't as sure as her partner, but the thought that it could be Illya's people makes her stomach ache. Even worse is the thought that he could've been the one there. If it was the Russians, if Illya wasn't loaned out to U.N.C.L.E., he could've been the one taking that shot. He's their best, and an excellent shot to boot. If he hadn't been with them….

If. If, if, if. Too many ifs, and Gaby just wants everything to stop for a moment so she can breathe.

Illya crosses his arms, going immediately on the defensive. Every inch of his body screams tension, and she can't help but be reminded of how stand-offish the two were in Rome. "I don't know what you mean," he rumbles. "If this is about the bugs, I-"

"The assassination." Solo is still, entirely calm. It's clear to see why exactly he's one of the CIA's best. Under all the slick smiles and decadence he's pure iron.

Either Illya is genuinely clueless or he's had time to prepare his reactions. "I don't know what you mean."

Clearly, Solo isn't buying it, but maybe he's catching on to something Gaby hasn't. "Kennedy is dead, Kuryakin, and you're going to tell me you didn't have some idea that it was coming? This has KGB stink all over it."

"Wh- no!" He's bewildered, but on guard, and even from her perch on the back of the couch Gaby can see his fingers begin to twitch. "We didn't, not that I- really?" The Russian takes a large step forward, but Napoleon stands his ground. "What, even if we did do this that I would tell you state secrets? What do you think I am?"

"So that's a yes, then."

"No is not yes!"

"Really? Because from what I've heard about your people's tactics, 'no' means 'shoot him again'."

There's a fist flying into Solo's face without warning, too fast for him to duck. It connects with a sickening crack, and blood flies from his mouth in an otherwise dramatic-looking spray. He's down for a second, stunned, but the anger and adrenaline have him on his feet and rallied in moments. He lunges gracefully at the hulking man in front of him, far more practiced than Gaby had been that night in Rome. Both men go crashing into the couch, knocking her to the floor though neither of them realize. They're far too busy grabbing at each other, trying to punch or choke or kick the life out of the other to notice anything else getting tied up in their scuffle. 

"Boys! Illya, Napoleon, for god's sake, stop!" But she gets no answer. Nothing will get through to them, as blinded as they are by their anger. Illya gets up first after the initial attack, Solo's head cradled firmly in his arms like he's aiming to either snap his neck or choke the life out of him. However, he appears to have expected this and uses a free elbow to firmly ram the Russian right in the crotch. No matter how strong or violent you are, Gaby thinks while scrambling to the couch, apparently no one's immune to that. Good to know for the future.

He rallies quickly, but by that time Napoleon already has a heavy crystal vase in his hands, and brings it squarely down on Illya's head. The moment of glory only lasts for a moment, because as he goes down, Illya grabs a handful of suit jacket and Solo hits the ground hard, right under his larger than life partner. They roll together, taking out another side table in lamp in the process. The whole thing devolves in to a desperate wrestling match to freedom, but just as Illya closes his hands around the American's neck once again, two gunshots ring out far too close to his head.

"Gentlemen," Gaby says again, calmly, "please do me a favor and get off the floor." Both men turn as one to be greeted with the terrifying image of Gaby Teller staring down at them from the coffee table, double-fisting handguns. Illya rolls away from Napoleon instantly, but is very displeased to find a gun still trained on his middle. Napoleon, at least, lays there and accepts his fate with little to no whining.

Gaby surveys them for a moment, then takes a look around the room. They'd been so good about room damages since Rome, not a single mirror broken or a pillow ripped. When Waverly hears about this he'll have kittens.

"Solo," she finally sighs, sounding more like a resigned mother or schoolteacher than his colleague, "why don't you go for a walk? Clear your head while we deal with this."

The man I'm question sits up gingerly, but holds a hand up ready to protest. "Now Gaby, I don't think-"

"No. You really don't. Now please go on before I have to shoot you in the foot and none if us get rid of you." She cocks the gun, and luckily for him Napoleon actually believes her. Slowly he gets to his feet, and speeds out the door as fast as a man who's been beaten to an inch of his life can. Good. She had no clue what she was actually going to do if he refused to leave. The guns aren't even loaded now after those shots.

Hopping down from her table perch, Gaby turns her full attention to her Russian partner. "Illya," she asks, "are you still breathing?"

Certianly, the puddle of blood pooling out from under his head was a little concerning, but at least his eyes are open and he looks something other than "dying" or "in pain". It's more of an annoyed look, like she's a little kid rather than someone with two (unloaded) guns pointed at his stomach. He groans a little, but manages to pull himself up from the nice oriental rug- totally ruined now, she's sure they can't get all that blood out- with minimal help. Most of the blood seems to be from one large, shallow cut across his scalp. That's the problem with head wounds, they bleed like a bitch and make everything so much more dramatic than it needs to be.

"Fine. Just fine." He waves the concern away with one oversized hand, and flicks blood across her face in the process. Whoops.

Gaby doesn't mind it though, or she doesn't care at the moment. Instead of going straight for threats of abuse, she settles down next to Illya and tucks both guns into the couch cushions. She sighs, tucking a stray lock of bloodied hair behind his ear. "Illya, was he on the right track?"

She can tell the question hurts him, she can see it land in his eyes. "Gaby, I do not-"

"Answer the question."

Screwing his eyes shut, he pulls away from her touch and takes a deep shaking breath. If this were any other day, Gaby wouldn't blame him one bit. Normally it kills her to see those shakes in his hands and the tension in his jaw. But this isn't a normal mission. It's a reminder that the world doesn't cooperate like their little team does. That their team even exists is a damned miracle, as Waverly would say.

"I know nothing of this," he says finally. It's not a yes, but it's not a total denial. Maybe he doesn't know, but who's to say there wasn't a plan on the books?

"But have there been plans?" Maybe it's not wise, but she has to know. Unfortunately, he doesn't answer this time. He won't even meet her eyes, and it's all the confirmation she needs. But she won't move away, as sick to her stomach as she is. "Love, you're bleeding all over me."

"Sorry," he grunts. "Is good look on you, though."

\---

Twelve hours later, the CIA recall Napoleon for a few weeks. They expect it, of course. It had always been a matter of just sitting tight and waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop.

**Author's Note:**

> The Kennedy assassination happened around noon on the 22nd. They're somewhere in Europe, so even though they're just getting the news moments after the shooting, time zones are a little different.


End file.
